


For Hire

by Pseud-pseud-pseudio (feral_albertan_female)



Series: For Hire [1]
Category: Marvel, Sabretooth - Fandom, Victor Creed - Fandom, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Canadian references, Consensual, Couch Sex, Diner Date, F/M, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Killer For Hire, Light Bondage, Living room sex, Masturbation, Movie Night, Non-Consensual, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Victor Creed - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-10 09:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14734301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feral_albertan_female/pseuds/Pseud-pseud-pseudio
Summary: You're in desperate need of help but there's only one person who can help you. This is your first meeting.





	1. Step One: The Introduction

You wait in the hallway until you hear the pre-movie commercials start.

The guy you’re waiting on still hasn’t shown, so you go in. No sense in wasting a free ticket for a movie you’d secretly wanted to see. It’s a summer blockbuster, high-action, car chase, shoot ‘em up kind of thing—lots of explosions, engines revving, tires squealing—and you know you would have seen it eventually, maybe when it came out on Netflix, but the man insisted on meeting here, and hey, he paid for the ticket.

The theatre is dark as you go towards second last row, which remains completely empty. The auditorium is far from full, maybe ten or fifteen people scattered over 150 seats, and so you score a great spot.

The previews are nothing special, more summer blockbuster types with very little plot and too much CGI. You’re not really paying attention anyway—too busy scanning the audience trying to figure out who this guy could be.

Maybe that fit guy with the too-tight t-shirt and sunglasses perched backwards on his head? Perhaps the older, distinguished looking gentleman who seems like he’d be more at home watching a period drama than an action flick? What about the hipster dude who was wearing a toque despite the fact is was almost 30 degrees Celsius outside?

Nervousness suddenly overtakes you and your whole body goes cold.

You’ve never done this before—you’d never even _thought_ of doing something like this before, not even in a fantasy or daydream—but you’re desperate.

Extremely desperate.

Desperate enough to meet a strange man in a strange movie theatre in a strange part of town— _that_ kind of desperate—and you don’t even know what this guy looks like.

The film starts with an eardrum-shattering explosion and you jump, laughing quietly when you realise how silly you were acting.

On the screen, about 70 cars are doing Dukes of Hazzard style jumps as they speed down a freeway that looks to be under construction. A rap song with a furious beat and lightning-speed lyrics blasts over the speakers and the director chose to sync the motions of the drivers with the music like a choreographed dance.

You find yourself suddenly engrossed in the beat-driven actions of the drivers, so engrossed, that you’re startled when a man sits down in the seat on your right.

He’s huge—tall, broad-shouldered, well-muscled, long legs—and he immediately spreads those longs legs open, the outside of his thigh bumping your knee.

Your heart is doing an awfully complicated dance in your chest, but you try to act cool, like this is no big deal.

“Did I miss anything important?” he whispers. He smells of wood smoke undercut with the tang of sweat as he leans down. It's wonderfully masculine and it thrills you a little.

“Those two are sisters,” you whisper back, pleased how confident you sound. “I think that’s gonna come into play later.”

“Thanks.”

His voice is low and slightly gruff and you spare him a glance: long blonde hair in a ponytail and a ruggedly handsome face with a strong jaw. He’s wearing a black tank top tucked into well-worn jeans, a studded leather belt looped around the waist. His left arm comes up and rests across your shoulders like you’re teenagers on a date.

This is happening; this is actually going to happen!

Was he what you were expecting? Honestly, did you really even _know_ what to expect?

Five excruciating minutes pass and he doesn’t speak. Not only that, his leg is still pressed against yours and you find the incredible amount of heat it’s giving off distracting. You shoot him an apologetic smile and begin to shift in the seat, but his left hand suddenly clamps on your left shoulder. A gasp shoots from you as you feel four sharp pricks pierce the fabric of your shirt.

“Lean back,” he says, his voice soft and dangerous. “Don’t make a goddamn sound or I’ll fuckin’ gut everyone in here. Nod if you understand.”

Would he honestly kill all the people in here because of one little sound? You open your mouth and he jerks you back against the seat.

“I’m serious,” he growls. “I don’t play, girl.”

Okay, so now you know he’s not fucking around. He’s crazy. You’re sitting next to a crazy man and no one knows except for you. Since you don’t want a bloodbath on your hands, you give him a curt nod.

This satisfies him and he takes in a deep breath. You manage to stay perfectly still when you feel his nose touch the crown of your head. He’s _sniffing_ you like a dog would.

The guy seems to like what he smells, letting out a pleased _aah_ , as if you’re the most delicious scent in the world. Slowly, his other hand strokes your stomach once over your shirt and you fight the urge to jerk away as he touches you. He smiles against your hair.

“Good girl,” he murmurs as his hand moves lower.

He pops the button on your jeans and pulls the zipper down bit by agonizing bit, each tug making you grip the armrests tight. You’re tense; you’re tenser than tense. You’re so tense you feel as if you could snap apart at any moment, so when an explosion blasts through the speakers, you jump.

Your heart is practically leaping from your chest and he chuckles, his breath hot and tickly against your scalp. As his fingertips brush the top of your panties, your skin catches fire and you let out a heavy breath through your nose, fixing your gaze on the screen.

Several people are standing in a dilapidated garage, screaming at each other over an expensive looking car that looks oddly like a penis to you. You have no idea what the fuck is happening on screen or in your pants as his hand moves down. His fingers graze your pubic hair.

Okay, _okay_.

This was certainly _not_ what you were expecting when you asked Billy Tamucchi if he knew someone who could help you with a serious issue in your life.

He’d looked at you—like, really looked at you as if noticing you for the first time despite having worked for his father for years—and said, “Yeah, I know someone who knows someone who knows someone, but it’s gonna cost ya.”

You were prepared to pay anything and said as much, and he’d laughed at you and called you a dumb broad, so you’d hit him in the face. After you’d reset his nose and stuffed some cotton up his nostrils to help slow the bleeding, Billy said he’d get you in contact with the right people, and bless his huge, swollen schnoz, he did.

“You feel good,” the man whispers. “Smell nice, too.”

The words “thank you” rise immediately in your throat because you’re a polite Canadian and it’s just a reflex action at this stage of life, but you remember his warning to stay quiet and wisely keep your mouth shut.

His finger strokes your clit and the armrests almost snap under your grip, but goddamn, shocks of pleasure are zooming up and down your central nervous system and it’s fucking amazing. This guy obviously knows what he’s doing.

It doesn’t take long for him to make you wet and his finger slides towards your opening, massaging what he finds there up towards your sensitive bud. A little moan slips from you and you immediately bite your lip.

“Good girl,” he murmurs again.

Your breath comes faster as he continues to dominate your most delicate area and tremors start jolting up and down your spine. This amuses him.

“Been a while, huh?”

It _has_ been a while. It’s not that you’re hard up for sex, but it hasn’t been important lately. You’ve had other, more pressing matters to deal with. Sex was a distraction you couldn’t afford.

Right now though, you can barely focus on anything else.

The rational part of you knows that this man—this psycho, crazy man—was a complete stranger, but he’s making you feel so goddamn good and you can’t help but imagine what he would look like stripped naked and under you, his large hands gripping your waist as you ride him until you’re both saddle sore.

The jolts are coming faster now and you’re gasping as quietly as you can, hoping no one in theatre has noticed that you’re getting the finger fuck of a lifetime. You’re getting close, so close and your eyelids flutter shut.

He seems to sense your upcoming orgasm and eases up slightly, removing the pressure that was pushing you towards heaven. You let out a small growl as your eyes snap open and he chuckles again, his finger on the move once more.

“You wanna make a sound, baby?”

Oh, god, fuck yes, you wanna make a sound! You want to make _all_ the sounds!

Instead, you nod.

“Do it right … _now_.”

He slides a finger into your hot, throbbing pussy and you let out a cry just as another ear-splitting fireball lights up the screen.

His fingertip almost immediately finds the spongy area inside of you that sends you to the fucking moon and he presses on it firmly. You gasp softly and tilt your head back, his mouth now against your hairline.

“You’re amazing,” he says quietly. His lips are surprisingly soft on the skin of your forehead.

Fireworks are beginning to light up behind your eyelids as he massages your g-spot like a goddamn professional. You want to scream out that _he’s_ the amazing one but darkness edges your vision and you know you’re close to having the most spectacular orgasm of your life. You slide lower in your seat, bucking your hips against his touch, biting your lips as hard as you can.

“You’re gonna come, ain’tcha?” he whispers and you can barely nod as he drives you to the edge. You almost sob as he pulls his finger away. “Not yet, baby.”

Another little growl comes from you and you tilt your hips up, begging for him to come back, to touch that special part of you until you die from sheer bliss. The tension had been building to a beautiful conclusion, the kind of ending where you would have jumped into the abyss, screaming your ecstasy.

With everything that happened lately, you fucking deserve it.

A laugh comes from him, a nice, rumbling sound that doesn’t help quench the lust burning in your loins. “Hold on, girl,” he says. “Don’t be greedy.”

But you _are_ greedy, so you reach down and grab his wrist, keeping it still so you can plunge yourself down against that wayward digit. If he won’t help you, you’ll help yourself.

“Damn, girl!” he exclaims as his finger skates across your special spot and he crooks it, his fingertip pressing hard.

It’s like magic: the right amount of pressure and movement has you gunning for a Dukes of Hazzard type jump, right across that goddamn canyon and you go for it, revving your engine before you stomp on the gas.

You and the Golden Gate Bridge are blown to smithereens, the detonation loud enough to rock the seats in the audience. You ride the wave, but unlike the Golden Gate Bridge, you don’t make a fucking sound as you explode, biting your lips hard enough to make them bleed.

“Fuck,” he hisses as you sag back into your seat, sweaty and spent.

His finger is still inside you as you catch your breath; once you have, he pulls it out and lifts it to his mouth. His eyes lock onto yours as he sucks it clean.

When he’s finished, he leans forward, his mouth to your ear. “I like you, girl,” he says softly. “I’ll do what you need.”

Your heart’s still going like a locomotive in your chest and you want to thank him—for the orgasm or the help, you’re not sure—but his mouth is suddenly on yours, his tongue rough as he demands entrance, lapping at the blood trickling from lips.

You let him in and taste yourself on him, and he makes a sound of satisfaction before he pulls away and brushes a piece of wayward hair from your face. The gesture feels nice.

He gives you a smile and stands, one hand extended. A small, white card is tucked between his fingers and you take it before looking up at him. He touches the tip of his thumb to your lower lip and it comes away bloody. One quick lick from that gorgeous tongue and it’s gone and then he’s gone, striding out of the row, down the stairs, and out of the auditorium.

The card feels hot in your hand, so you hold it up and read it by the light of the screen:

        

         Victor Creed

Don’t call me; I’ll call you

 

Slowly, carefully, you put the card in your pocket and settle back to finish watching the movie. Why not? The ticket was free, but you can’t seem to shake the feeling that you’ve already paid for it and much more.


	2. Step Two: The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm Victor Creed an' you wanna hire me to do a hit. You ain't my regular clientele but ever since our first meetin', I can't get you off my mind. Let's find out whether you'll be worth my time or better as a midnight snack.

I know I got a bad reputation  
and it isn't just talk, talk, talk  
If I could only give you everything  
You know I haven't got

I couldn't have one conversation  
If it wasn't for the lies, lies, lies  
And still I ought to tell you everything  
'till I close my eyes

\- _Bad Reputation_ by Freedy Johnston

 

* * *

 

I’m reading the newspaper when you walk through the door, a bulky backpack in your hand an’ a messenger bag slung over your shoulder. I check my watch; you’re six minutes late and I wonder for the millionth time why I’m doin’ this.

First, I ain’t nice guy.

Second, I’m a mutant—a feral mutant. I have heightened senses, strength, speed, an’ I can heal any wound I get.

Third, I’m a killer. Stalkin’ and huntin’ prey is more n’ just a hobby for me—it’s a way of life. But killin’ … now there’s my bread an’ butter. That’s what I love doin’ the most an’ I’m fuckin’ good at it too.

I’ve killed in the name of the government, in the name of evil, for good, for money, and strictly ‘cause I was bored. I get off on it an’ I’m a big believer in the mantra that if you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life.

Heh.

I ain’t some two-bit, old-timey mob hitman who puts fuckin’ cement shoes on people so they can sleep with the goddamn fishes. I make the big bucks doing the terrible, horrible, disgustin’, awful shit that no one else wants to take on. I get my hands more n’ dirty; I get ‘em get absolutely filthy.

_Want a bloodbath? Call Victor Creed. Satisfaction guaranteed or your disembowelment is free!_

Others’ve called me a psychopath, a murderer, a serial killer, a sociopathic massacre machine. Some of my many nicknames include The Dashimo Butcher, El Tigre, an’ my personal fuckin’ favourite: _Der Schl_ _ächter_. It means _The Butcher_ in German.

I’ve earned every single one of those nicknames. Sure, I travel the world slaughterin’ people for cash, but I’m fuckin’ rich, so I sleep pretty well at night.

I still ain’t sure why your case ended up in my lap. I’m pretty well known in both the bush an’ big leagues an’ my contacts know better n’ send me the small fry shit. I got contacts everywhere an’ maybe an old one sent it along, thinkin’ I could use the work. You need someone killed an’ I’m a killer. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Heh.

As soon as I read it, I put it out of my mind. It’s small potatoes, not even worth a second of my fuckin’ time.

But I’ll be goddamned if I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about it. The info I received was vague, but enough to make me wonder what was goin’ through the mind of the person who wanted this hit done. I went back an’ read it a few more times before I decided what the fuck.

I had it set up so we’d meet in a movie theatre durin' some blockbuster schlock I’d already seen seventeen times. The plan was to get a look at you for shits an’ giggles, see the face of the civilian who’d go through such desperate measures to hire a fuckin’ assassin. ‘Sides, it’d remind me of the good ol’ days, back when I’d do this kind of job for three hundred bucks an’ a cheeseburger meal from McDonald’s—an’ fuck yeah if I scored a Muppets toy. Animal is the fuckin’ man.

The auditorium was dark; I was just gonna look an’ leave, maybe pass your case onto some hoser who was just startin’ out, but when I saw you—Jesus, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The beast inside of me went wild an’ it was all I could do not to kill everyone in that fuckin’ theatre an’ claim you as my own.

You were an unassumin' sort, nothing special, an’ you were absolutely absorbed in the action onscreen, leanin' slightly forward in the seat, your gaze focused resolutely ahead.

Like a goddamn idiot, I went to you.

I should’ve walked away, but I didn’t. I shouldn’t have touched you, but I did. I should’ve said no, but I couldn’t. You became my prey.

Now it’s two weeks later—two weeks of stalkin’ you through the streets, through your school, to your house. Two weeks of not bein’ able to think of much else except for your scent an’ the way you moved against my touch, the way you took care of your own orgasm when I had denied you. I haven’t washed the tank I was wearin’ that night; it still smells like you an’ it gets me hard as a fuckin’ rock whenever I’m near it.

Your backpack hits the seat heavily an’ you sit, pushin’ it towards the wall with your hip before you remove the messenger bag an’ place it carefully beside the pack. The money you’re gonna pay me is in there, that’s why you’re being so precious with it. It’s probably a shit ton of money for you, maybe your life savings.

The earnest expression on your face makes my heart clench, which sparks anger. I don’t feel things for others. Feelin’s are too complicated, and like I stated earlier, I ain’t a nice guy. I decide to pour on the ol’ Vic Creed charm, remind myself that I’m a badass motherfucker who’d rather kill you as look at you. I fold the top corner of the paper so I can see your face.

“You’re late.”

You look tired, but you straighten your shoulders against my accusation, refusin’ to let it get to you. It tells me you don’t take a lot of shit, that you’d rather fight than back down an’ my groin tightens slightly.

The denim jacket you’re wearing looks like it’s one wash away from completely disintegratin’ an’ I bet it’s the only jacket you have. Your sneakers are also worn, scuffed, the laces broken an’ re-knotted an’ reused. The t-shirt is somewhat new, maybe second-hand, an’ your shorts are a little too big for you, so you use a long scarf as a belt because you probably don’t own one.

The outfit lends you a bohemian air, as if you’re someone who dresses this way because you’re a free spirit who practises yoga in the nude an’ chants to the moon once a month an’ doesn’t give a fuck what people think.

I know better: you’re just dirt-ass poor, makin’ do with the shit you have. I’ve been there, so sittin’ across from you in my professionally tailored Armani suit, my bespoke shoes, and $400,000 watch (Vacheron Constantin Patrimony, thank you very much) makes me feel superior.

And I am superior—homo superior, if you will.

Heh.

Your eyes travel over my unimpressed face an’ the two empties an’ fresh beer bottle by my elbow. Sure, I dress like a fuckin’ angel but I can still enjoy a simple beer when the occasion warrants it.

“Sorry,” you say, as you snatch up a menu. “Class ran late and my bus—“

“You’re _late_.” I speak slowly, as if you’re a child. I could give a shit about your excuses an’ I snap the paper back up so I don’t have to see your face. “People I work for need to listen to what I say an’ show up _on time_.”

I’d sent you the text at 5:30 P.M. to meet me at the diner for 7 P.M. I knew you had shit to do but it was a test to see how well you took direction, how well you listened to _me_.

The scents of frustration, exhaustion, aggravation, an’ all the other bad words that end with ‘-tion’ shoot out of you an’ I hear you take in a breath.

_Here we go. This is what I’ve been waitin’ for._

Your arm smashes the paper to the table, rippin’ it in two. I’m now lookin’ directly into your face an’ it’s flushed with anger.

“I’m late?! _I’M LATE_?!”

_Yeah, give me your rage. Lemme feel it, girl._

You throw the menu on the table, but the flimsy rectangle of plastic floats to the floor, ruinin’ the impact you were tryin’ to make; it doesn’t stop you.

“You finger fuck me in a dark theatre without any warning and then you have the absolute nerve to be pissed at me for being _seven minutes late_?! Well, fuck you and your fuckin’ ugly shoes and whatever sewer you crawled out of!”

For the record, my shoes ain’t ugly—they’re _Italian leather_ for Christ’s sake—but you’re so vicious, spittin’ and hissin’ like an angry kitten, that I get caught up in it an’ forget to be mad.

You begin grabbin’ at the bags jammed against the wall. “You know what? I don’t need this bullshit and I don’t need you!”

Your bluster makes me laugh; you _do_ need me or else you wouldn’t’ve let me slide my finger into your beautifully soaked pussy an’ you certainly wouldn’t’ve jumped at the chance to see me again.

“Woah, now! Easy there, tiger!” The nickname comes easily an’ it feels right.

You’re this killer kitten, fightin’ for survival, roarin’ an’ stompin’ around when you feel threatened. It’s goddamn adorable. I’m all fuckin’ charmed an’ shit.

You don’t seem to hear me, continuin' to huff an’ grab at your shit, so I reach out an’ place my hand over yours. You skin is soft an’ hot to the touch.

“Look at me,” I say quietly.

You lift your eyes an’ take in my amused expression, heat suddenly rushin’ through your body. You want me, an’ fuck if I don’t want you too. I breathe in the smell of your lust as I curl my fingers around yours.

“It’s important my clients listen to me.”

It’s important _you_ listen to me.

A little spark of anger undercuts your desire and your face twists in a sneer. “What, so you can be in complete control?”

Yeah, so I can be in complete control of _you_.

It thrills me that you’re challengin’ me, this tiny little tiger hissin’ up against this big, hungry lion. My own desire for you amps up an’ it’s like I’m back in that dark auditorium starin’ like you’re the most beautiful fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.

I slide my hand from yours an’ lean back, givin’ you a smile. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m the professional here.”

The waitress comes over—Margie, her nametag says—an’ I see the apology die in your throat as she places a glass of water an’ a beer in front of you before she fishes in her apron for her ordering pad.

“Your usual, hon?” she asks you.

You used to work at this diner as a teenager, pickin’ up shifts whenever you could; you practically lived here. I’m guessin’ you had a shit home life. That knowledge comes from a li’l thing I like to call ‘research’. I know so much about you an’ you don’t even know it.

You give the waitress a brilliant smile, tryin’ to hide your obvious frustration an’ weariness. “Thanks, Margie.”

The waitress turns to me. “How ‘bout you, big sexy?”

She’s not an unattractive woman an’ normally, I would’ve at least waited for her to get off work before pressin’ my ( _ahem_ ) advantage an’ maybe tastin’ her blood when I was done, but she ain’t my focus. I want _you_.

I place the torn newspaper aside, on top of my suit jacket. “Steak, rare.”

“Any sides, hon?”

“Two more rare steaks.”

“You got it.” Margie, unfazed, scribbles down the order an’ wanders away, back to the kitchen, leavin’ us alone.

I don’t speak, lettin’ silence fall over the table. A mix of emotions comes from you an’ you grab the beer an’ down half of it in three huge swallows. It’s impressive.

When you notice me watchin’, you tilt your head towards your messenger bag. “I’ve got yo—“

“We don’t talk business here,” I say brusquely. I decide where and when we talk business an’ I know _exactly_ where and when I want it to be. It ain’t gonna be here, and it ain’t gonna be now, I can tell you that much.

“Then why are we here?”

Why? Because the beast hasn’t reacted to a frail like that in a long time; I usually fuck ‘em an’ kill ‘em—or free ‘em if I’m in a rare mood—but the beast is tellin’ me you’re somethin’ different. I want to see if the spark between us was real, if it could grow to the fiery inferno I’m desperate to be consumed by.

“Tell me about yourself,” I say.

“Nothing much to tell,” you reply. “Born, school, graduate, made an ass ton of bad and stupid decisions, and here we are. The end.”

Margie comes back with more beer for us an’ you grab yours like it’s a fuckin' lifeline.

“What are you studying?”

You lower the bottle from your lips. “Uh, nursing. I’m in my third year. I already have my registered nursing certificate; I’m getting my bachelor’s.” You drain the rest of the beer. “My turn. Any barbed wire, Super Mario Brothers, or tribal tattoos? Below the belt piercings I need to know about?”

“No,” I chuckle. “You?”

“Oh, yeah,” you reply sarcastically. “I’ve got the lyrics to Sarah McLachlan’s _Angel_ tattooed on my back and a Mount Rushmore style portrait of The Kids in the Hall on the inside of my left thigh.”

“Mmmm, didn’t notice that.”

“Well, it _was_ dark.”

I laugh again an’ you blush furiously, sinking lower in the seat. Your scent is all lust, all want, all _need_ , an’ an erection tents my pants. I can’t help but wonder if you’re thinkin’ of how it felt when my finger was deep inside you, strokin’ you towards ecstasy. Personally, I’m thinkin' of the way you tasted on my tongue when I licked that finger clean.

_I want you. I’m going to have you and you don’t even know it yet._

You shift in your seat, suddenly uncomfortable. I know you’re wonderin’ what you’re doin’ here about to eat spaghetti and meatballs across from the psycho killer who gave you an incredibly mind-blowing orgasm. The scent of sweat reaches my nose an’ you start slidin' out of the booth.

My muscles tighten; I don’t want you out of my sight, but I fight the growl that’s buildin’ in my chest.

“Bathroom,” you say, tilting your head towards the doors.

I know what you mean, but to me it’s an invitation I’m gonna take. I give you two minutes before I head towards the ladies’, passing Margie on the way.

“I’ll keep your food warm,” she says as I go by. “Door locks from the inside.”

Smart lady; I like her.

You’re dryin’ your hands as I enter an’ you look up as you hear the lock click shut. We lock eyes in the mirror an’ your heart kicks into overdrive, hammerin’ wildly in your chest like a John Bonham drum solo (YouTube that shit. _Bonzo’s Montreux_ ).

“What are you doing in here?” you ask, tryin’ to play it cool. Your show of false bravado is fascinatin’. You’re half-terrified an' half-aroused an’ it’s ambrosia to me. “This is the ladies’, Mr. Creed.”

Jesus. The way you say my name makes me harder than I ever thought possible. Talk about gettin' off on a goddamn power trip.

I don’t say anythin’ as I approach you an’ you watch me, your eyes both curious an’ burnin’. You want to know what I’m gonna do an’ you get a clue when I crowd you against the counter, pinnin' you there with my hips.

“Gimme your scarf,” I growl.

You stare at me for a few seconds before you lower your hands to your waist. I’ve left you enough room to untie the knot before you begin to pull it off slowly. It’s like you’re fuckin’ teasin’ me, testin’ me.

Normally I ain’t the kind of guy who likes that shit, but you make it feel right, like it’s gonna be better if I wait. I’m practically snarlin’ as you hold the scarf off to the side an’ I grab it, wrappin’ the ends around my hands.

Your eyes haven’t left mine an’ your face is expressionless, but I can hear the blood shooting through your veins at the speed of light, your heart thumpin’ against your ribs.

What am I gonna do to you?

“Arms behind your back,” I say gruffly an’ you immediately obey me, crossing your hands at the wrist.

 _Fuck yes_.

The scarf goes around your wrists securely, but not tight enough to cut off blood flow—that’s for later.

You let out a little squeak as I finish with the knot, jerkin’ your arms slightly. You bite your lip an’ your shut your eyes. I don’t want that.

“Open your eyes,” I command. “Look at me.”

They snap open, your gaze fastened on mine.

“Bend over.”

I slide my hand under your shirt as you do; your flesh is hot an’ startin’ to get slick with sweat. You’re excited an’ the heat is pourin’ from you, practically choking the air around me. I’m so fuckin’ hard.

“Want me to make you feel good, tiger?” I purr as I reach for your bra strap.

I don’t normally ask—I’m more of a doer—but I know you’re gonna say yes an’ I’m desperate to hear your lips form the word. You don’t disappoint.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Mr. Creed.”

I fight the urgent need to come. Your face is flushed from an intoxicatin' mix of desire and terror an’ your mouth is open slightly as you pant, waitin’ for me, wantin’ me.

My hands are quick to yank your shorts an’ panties down, the latter of which is already damp with your juices. I take a deep breath, lovin’ how you’re reactin’ to me.

I grab the scarf around your tied wrists an’ reach for my pants with my other hand. Your breath hitches as you hear the zipper come down an’ you press yourself against the counter, openin’ your legs for me.

“Goddamn, tiger,” I murmur as I grasp my achin’ cock in my hand, “you want me bad, don’tcha?”

“Hurry up and fuck me,” you gasp. “I got a paper due tomorrow.”

Fuck, that sass zings through me an’ I growl, lovin’ your backtalk. I’ve killed broads for less, but that ain’t what my beast wants with you.

You’re slick as I rub the tip of my cock along your folds, drawin’ a moan from you an’ I can’t wait no more. My grip tightens on your wrists an’ I shove inside your tight, wet heat.

Goddamn. _Goddamn_.

“Aah!”

The cry I wrench from you makes me pull back an’ drive in again, wantin’ you to make the same sound. You do an’ it spurs me to thrust harder. Your insides are like velvet around my shaft, flutterin’ and clenchin’ as I fuck you, the rhythm I’ve set forcin’ little grunts from your mouth.

Shit, I’ve fucked a lot of women in a lot of places, but you…

My beast is goin’ wild, howlin’ an’ clawin’ at my insides, demandin’ I mark you an’ Jesus, I want to. The idea of my bite, red and swollen on your soft skin, gets me hotter, but I can’t claim you, not yet.

“Christ,” you hiss as you start to thrust your hips back to meet mine. “You’re a fuckin’ animal!”

I _am_ a fuckin’ animal an’ hearin’ you say it pushes me towards the edge. I grab the scarf an’ start yankin’ you back against me, drivin’ my cock deep into your sweet heat.

With you squirmin’ and mewlin’ under me, I reach around an’ touch that special little spot, the spot you let me touch the first time we met. I ain’t gentle with it; I’m gettin’ close an’ I want you right there with me, screamin’ as you come.

“Fuck!” Your voice an’ preceding groan are loud in the room; if no one knew what we were doin’ in here before, they sure as hell do now.

You’re gettin’ close; I can smell it, a blend of sweat an’ pussy juice an’ somethin’ I’ve never been able to identify. It’s one of my favourite scents. If someone bottled the smell of a woman’s come, they’d have a customer for fuckin’ life.

“Mr. C-Creed,” you gasp. “I—please…”

Your sentence ends with a whimper as you clench tightly around me, squeezin’ my cock to the point of pain.

I love it.

Explosions dance in front of my vision as I come an’ I plough into you as deep as I can, my seed mixin’ with the fragrant smell of your release. I let loose a roar as I spill into you, my beast howlin’ along, still desperate for me to claim you.

I ignore it an’ focus on the right now, the shocks of electricity shootin’ through me as I lean over you, placin’ my arms on the counter so I can catch my breath.

We stay like that for a minute, gaspin’ an’ pantin’ for air, our eyes locked in the mirror. Christ, you are goddamn amazin’ an’ I know it’s gonna take every ounce of badass motherfucker I have inside me to walk away from you now.

We don’t say nothin’ as I pull out an’ stuff my spent member back into my pants, but before I untie you, I use my claws to slice off your panties. I stuff ‘em in my pocket an’ you give me the tiniest smile.

 _Shit_.

The scarf flutters to the floor an’ you stand, rubbin’ your wrists.

“Mr. Creed, wh—“

“I’ll be in touch.” I say gruffly as I go towards the door.

We’re done here, at least for now. I know exactly when I’m gonna see you next; I’ve got it all planned out, tiger.

Just you wait.

Margie’s at the counter an’ I toss two hundred bucks on the cracked Formica. Her eyes are curious as she looks up at me.

“For the food,” I tell her. “Pack it all up an’ send it home with her. Whatever cash is left over is yours.”

She smiles at me an’ slips the money into her cleavage. “I knew I liked you.”

I wink at her before stridin’ out the door.

Fuck, maybe I’m turnin’ into a nice guy after all.

Goddammit.


	3. Step Three: Let's Make a Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor Creed has summoned you--it's time to pay the piper but you two can't agree on the terms.

The Devil isn’t some guy

with red horns & a tail.

The Devil can be

beautiful.

\-- _author unknown_

 

* * *

 

 

You’re thinking of him again, the crotch of your panties damp. You shift in the comfortable passenger seat, trying to focus your mind on anything else.

The driver, a handsome young twenty-something named Ryan, hasn’t spoken a word since he picked you up outside the diner where you and Victor Creed had your second meeting exactly one week ago today.

An image of Creed’s face—wild and sexy—comes back to you, reflected in the mirror of the ladies bathroom as he fucked you from behind, your hands tied behind your back.

 _No_.

You shift again, tightening your grip on the messenger bag in your lap. The burner phone Creed sent you is in there, having arrived the day after the diner incident. There had been no note but you’d known it was from him.

It had remained silent for exactly six days until you’d heard it buzzing in the bag a few hours ago. There was a text.

V – _Be at diner at 7pm EXACTLY. Blue Jetta will pick you up. Driver’s name is Ryan. Respond once you get this_

You’d lifted your lip slightly at his jab about being on time. Jesus, it was only seven minutes. It wasn’t like you’d shown up three days later with a guy named Rob, dressed as a clown and covered in your own vomit.

Well, if Creed was going to be a dick, it gave you license to be irritating.

Y – _10-4, good buddy_

He hadn’t texted back, but you took joy imagining his put-upon sigh before running his hand over his ruggedly handsome face exasperatedly. Or maybe he growled as he snapped the phone shut—that thought made you shiver in delight.

Creed’s wonderfully deep growls went through you like lightning, always striking in the sensitive area between your thighs. Fuck, it was so goddamn sexy when he did it, the rumble caressing your skin in all the naughtiest of places.

The sensible part of you knows it’s a dangerous sound, the kind of sound a predator makes when angered or about to attack, but you can’t help but be turned on by it. The sensible part of you thinks you’re a fucking idiot and you can’t help but agree.

Victor Creed projects an air of danger that should serve as a warning to stay the fuck away and it wasn’t only because he’s a hitman for hire.

He moved with the grace of a large, hungry cat, his beautiful amber eyes constantly watching every step, judging, waiting. Everything he did, from blinking to breathing, radiated that this was not a nice man. This guy did not help old ladies cross the street nor did he spend time mentoring kids at the local Boys & Girls Club.

Victor Creed was a badass motherfucker.

You knew—you _knew_ —that you were getting yourself into more trouble than what you were already in, but goddamn if that man wasn’t as addictive as meth. He’d leave you feeling used and spent but you couldn’t wait until the next hit, craving when you’d feel that fire in your veins again.

The worst part is that you would do just about anything to get it, anything to get _him_.

The Jetta rolled to a gentle stop outside of a fancy-looking apartment building, complete with an awning and a doorman who was dressed in the typical red coat and cap. You hadn’t known shit like this existed here.

Before popping open the door, you turn to Ryan. “Thanks for the ride. You’re a barrel of laughs and don’t let anyone ever tell you different.”

He turns his handsome yet expressionless, face to you and reaches into his front pocket. A folded piece of paper is in his fingers.

“Don’t read it,” he says in a cultured alto as he hands it to you. “Give it to the doorman. He’ll tell you what to do.”

“I just love this espionage shit,” you say flippantly. “Don’t you?”

Ryan leans across you and opens the door, then moves back to glare at you. That’s your cue to exit. You barely step out of the car before it squeals away, pelting you with small droplets of water from the damp asphalt.

“Rude.”

You take a few moments to check yourself, wiping away water from your jeans and coat. Your hair’s still a bit damp from when you’d dashed to the car from the diner’s entrance, but it’s been pulled back into a tail, so it’s not totally noticeable.

It’s been raining off and on all day and it starts to drizzle again, so you haul ass from the sidewalk to the awning. The second you’re under the cover, the clouds start absolutely pissing rain. Just made it.

“Good evening, miss,” says the doorman, an older gent with a nice smile and silver hair underneath his mandatory cap. “Whom are you visiting this evening?”

You return the smile and hand him the note. As he reads it, his face becomes serious. He presses at his ear. “I have a visitor for Mr. Smith.” The doorman listens intently, then unlocks the door for you as he hands you back the note. “Have a pleasant evening, miss.” His smile is back and you flash him an uneasy one as you pass through.

You face another set of doors, these ones large, oak, and ominous. You’re beginning to feel like you’re about to enter a haunted house, but as you approach, they open and a stunning black man is there to greet you.

He holds his hand out and you go to shake it, but instead, he brings yours to his lips for a brief kiss. Then he turns and starts to walk away.

He doesn’t introduce himself and you don’t ask as you go along after him, struggling to keep up with his long strides. Like Ryan, he doesn’t speak as you and he board an elevator. He doesn’t press a button; instead, a small square rectangle appears and he puts a fingertip to it.

“Recognised.” The robot voice startles you but you play it off as the elevator starts to descend.

“So, have you worked for Mr. Creed long?”

The man flashes you a beautiful smile full of straight, white teeth, but doesn’t respond. Quiet falls again and you embrace it this time. Apparently, Creed likes to hire people of few words.

The elevator doors open to reveal what looks like an empty parking garage. The man presses yet another note into your hand then steps back onto the elevator just as the door slides shut.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter as you open the note. “He can’t be serious about all this spy fuckery.”

_Follow the white painted wall until you find a white painted door. Knock and wait._

With a sigh, you place a hand on the white wall, trailing your fingers along it as you walk. You chuckle as an image of _Labyrinth_ pops to mind.

“’For my will is strong as yours, my kingdom as great. You have no power over me!’” you say loudly. Your voice echoes through the space and you straighten your shoulders and say it again, louder and with more confidence.

“’For my will is as strong as yours, my kingdom as great! You have no power over me!’”

You imagine David Bowie in those sinfully tight pants and shake your head to clear it. _The man is dead; show some respect for Christ’s sake_. So instead, you picture Creed tight pants—the ones he was wearing at the diner—and heat flushes through you.

You’re so lost in the image that you’re startled as your fingertips catch at a crack in the wall, so you stop to examine it. You follow along the crack until you’re fairly sure it’s a door. Taking a step back, you raise your arm and pound on it twice.

The thumps echo in the empty lot and you shift from foot to foot, feeling a bit nervous and a bit like an idiot. This whole rigmarole seems ridiculous and you can’t help but wonder if Creed’s doing this to impress you. You know he’s rich if that watch on his wrist was any indication.

It was a $400,000 timepiece for Christ’s sake. The only reason you know this is because of your former life; you’re able to pick out expensive shit when you see it. You used to have some of it, the clothes, the accessories, the cars. Now you don’t.

How the mighty have fallen—but, were you ever really mighty or did you just trick yourself into feeling that way? Definitely the latter. Really, you were just a trailer trash girl playing at dress up until it became too much.

The door creaks open and you’re looking at the same man from the elevator. “Do you come here often?” you ask. The man smiles, again showing you the beautiful white smile and perfectly straight teeth. “I’d love to find out who your dentist is. They do great work.”

“Thank you,” he answers as you walk by, causing you to jump. “Mr. Creed offers a very generous dental and benefits package.”

“You weren’t this chatty in the elevator,” you say as he moves by you.

He flashes you another grin. “You met Tyler, my twin. I’m Tristan.”

Tristan trots off, leaving you to follow. His strides are as long and you’re practically jogging to keep up with him. Man, you are out of shape.

“Doesn’t talk much, your brother?”

He shakes his head. “Not anymore,” he replies. “Mr. Creed has his tongue cut out for talking too much if you get my meaning.”

 _Oh shit_.

Finally, you come to a stop in front of yet another elevator and Tristan waves you inside. “When the doors close, say your name loudly and clearly. If Mr. Creed’s remembered to program it in, you’ll be fine.”

You clutch the messenger bag close to your chest. “What if he forgot?”

“Then you’ll be killed by a poisonous gas that will fill the car,” Tristan said with another beautiful smile. “It was nice meeting you.”

The doors start to close and you panic, not sure if Creed’s used your real name or the alias you’ve been living under. You start to open your mouth to yell at Tristan but he’s gone and the doors slam shut.

“Identification, please.”

Despite the terror building in your chest, you take a second to admire the fact that even Canadian technology has been programmed to be polite.

“Identification, please.”

Okay, this time she sounds a bit bitchy like you’re the one wasting her time with all this _Get Smart_ bullshit.

 _Fuck it_.

You blurt out your real name and there’s about 20 seconds of absolutely nothing, so you decide to make peace with all the gods you can remember. Just as you reach the Flying Spaghetti Monster, the elevator jerks into motion and you stumble, almost falling to the floor.

It’s goes awfully fast for an elevator, so you press yourself to the side, close your eyes, and continue making peace with various gods as you’re blasted upwards. When you hear a gentle ding, you open your eyes. You’re alive.

_Thank you to all the gods working today._

“You have arrived at your destination,” says the snooty robot voice. “Please exit in five … four … three …”

You haul ass out of there before that bitch decides to gas you to death, and find yourself in a tastefully decorated entrance way. It’s got a 1930s feel with white and black chequered flooring, two gold filigree mirrors overhanging two small, curved tables that sat on either side of the entrance.

A matching Art Deco style lamp topped each table, vases of white orchids on either side. The walls were black, almost plastic looking, because they slightly reflective, the windows from the next room visible along with the sky full of grey clouds, pregnant with rain.

“Tell me, tiger,” comes Creed’s voice, “what do you think of my labyrinth?”

His _Labyrinth_ quote catches you off guard. Does the fact he’s doing it means that he was watching and listening to you the whole time? You should probably be creeped out, but you’re more charmed than anything else.

“Nice evenness,” you say, indicating the mirror, tables, and lamps.

“I like symmetry and balance,” he says. “Could be ‘cause my own life is so fuckin’ chaotic.”

Creed’s wearing a pair of jeans that are obviously newer than the ones he wore during your first encounter; but like those pants, they fit properly in all the right places. A black slim-fitting dress shirt clings to his massive chest, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the first two buttons undone, giving you an inkling of what lurks underneath. His long blonde hair is loose, flowing down past those broad shoulders.

The man is sex on a goddamn stick with sprinkles and a cherry on top.

Your mouth suddenly goes dry and everything you know about everything flies out of your head, even the skill of opening your mouth and having words come out. Creed gives you what could qualify as a smirk and you find yourself able to remember things again.

“I’m sure you could give a therapist a run for their money.”

“Mmmm,” he says. “Never had time for headshrinkers.”

“I’d look into one if I were you, get some serious analysis,” you say glibly. “All that _Get Smart_ shit is enough to put a woman off.”

“Is it?” His amber gaze is intense and you’re rooted to the spot, unable to move as those gorgeous honey-coloured eyes travel over you.

You can’t help but feel he’s imagining you naked—mostly because you’ve already done the same thing seventy times while just standing here—so when his gaze meets yours, a flush has worked its way over your face and chest.

To hide the heady mix of embarrassment and pure, unadulterated lust, you drop your eyes to your shoes. “Where can I—“

“Closet beside you.”

“’You don’t by any chance know the way through this labyrinth, do you?’” you quote, trying to ease some of that good ol’ sexual tension.

His lips quirk up in a half smile. “’Who me? No, I’m just a worm. Say, come inside, and meet the missus.’”

With a chuckle, you ditch your slip-on shoes and jacket. Creed turns around, giving you a good eyeful of that fine, denim-clad ass before he tilts his head, indicating you should tag along.

You all but scamper after him, like a kid chasing an ice cream truck, practically desperate to get another look at his amazing— _um_ —assets. He goes towards a small bar on the other end of the room, past the floor to ceiling windows.

The room is done in blacks and creams and whites. The ceiling is vaulted, numerous globes of light hanging down hanging from the heights, casting a nice glow over the interior, bringing a welcome warmth to counter the rain and greyness outside.

The floor was a dark hardwood, maybe a hickory or a cherry wood. A black metal staircase led to a second story, the top of which was hidden by a curved wall. Plants were interspersed throughout the place, a small bonsai tree on the coffee table in front of the sectional that was positioned to look out the windows at the gorgeous view of the city.

The opposite wall was stacked stone, an electric fireplace along the length. It was dark now, probably not used during the summer months, even when a shower brought a chill to the air. A black bench ran along under it, a domino of black and white pillows from end to end. The art was tasteful, watercolours and abstract for the most part, except for what looked like a few personal photographs.

“Drink?” Creed’s voice shakes you from your trance and you spin around to look at him.

He’s half turned to you, one side of his body in shadow, holding out a glass partially filled with an amber liquid the exact colour of his eyes.

Fuck yes, you want a drink. You want to drink from that decadent mouth of his, tasting it until you’re practically mad from it.

“Sure,” you reply, all smooth like.

He doesn’t move, wanting you to come to him and you do, dropping your bag and trying to act cool and not like you want to rip his clothes off with your teeth. Creed’s blonde eyebrows rise as you reach for the glass, which you almost drop when your fingertips brush and a flare of excitement pulses through you. His lips quirk up into a half smile as he brings the glass to his lips.

“L’chaim.” You toss the contents into your mouth and immediately regret it. It tastes like battery acid and nail polish remover had a baby.

“That’s a sippin’ whisky, tiger,” he says.

You lean forward slightly and open your mouth over the glass. The (probably super-expensive) whisky sloshes into it, strands of your saliva now mixed with the aged liquor.

“Jesus,” Your voice is hoarse, throat raw. “What the fuck was that—Sentinel piss?”

Creed is amused by you but doesn’t answer your rhetorical question. “Bathroom’s that way.”

A few seconds later, you find yourself in an opulent half-bathroom that’s easily twice the size of the place you rent. The shower is floor to ceiling and massive, but you figure it has to be to fit a body like Creed’s inside.

 _You were able to fit part of Creed’s body inside, weren’t you_?

You feel your legs tremble at the memory of his cock in you, stretching you open wide before filling you again and again. He’d felt so big, so massive, that you’d thought he was going to split you in two but you hadn’t cared because he’d felt so damn good, as if he was built for you.

Your groin aches.

A splash of cold water on your face chases the dirty thought from your mind and some of the redness from your face. You dab your eyes carefully and reapply some of the matte lip-gloss you’d had on earlier.

Creed is waiting with a bottle of your favourite beer when you come back and you accept it gratefully. A good mouthful takes away the taste of the battery acid/nail polish remover’s baby and you sigh happily.

“So, you’re a beer girl.” There’s a teasing cadence to his voice. “Noted.”

“Why? You planning on having me back after that display of class and elegance?”

Creed tilts his head, his blonde hair falling gently to one side. “Surprised you didn’t get a taste for that kind of stuff in your old line of work.”

The beer bottle comes down for your lips at an incredible speed and you stare at him, anger now burning your throat instead of the whisky.

_Shit._

He comes towards you, the smile changing from amused to sly. “Come on now, tiger,” he says, his voice low and seductive. “In my line of work, I gotta know everything about my client, leave no stone unturned an’ that shit. What you did, though, it ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

“I’m _not_ ashamed,” you snap, “or didn’t your research tell you that?”

“Don’t be upset, tiger,” Creed says softly. He’s close to you now, so close you can feel the heat from his body. He reaches up and skates the tip of his thumb over your lower lip before he cups your cheek. “It’s all part of the gig.”

The blistering retort you’d planned (and it was gonna be a _scorcher_ ) dies as his mouth closes over yours, his tongue demanding entrance. It’s abrasive, like a cat’s tongue, but you like the way it rasps roughly against your lips.

You open for him with a quiet moan and Creed delves into your mouth, clashing his tongue to yours. His is hot and wet and so goddamn _talented_ that you forget what you were mad about, especially when his hand gently palms the back of your neck, tilting your head back and pulling you closer to that wet dream of a body.

“Got my money, baby?” Creed whispers against your lips.

You let out a whine and try to engage him again, capturing his lower lip between your teeth. The growl that comes from him makes you moan as it travels through your body. It also makes you release his lip and he steps back.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat and straightening your shirt. “I got your money.”

 _Hey, Dirty, baby I got your money. Don't you worry, I said hey_ _; Baby I got your money_.

Now is not the time for Ol’ Dirty Bastard lyrics, so you open your messenger bag and pull out a huge wad of cash.

Creed leads you to a glass office table in the corner of the room. It’s neat and tidy and clean, no papers scattered over the surface, no fingerprint smudges on the glass. He taps the table and you toss the cash onto it.

He cuts the rubber band with an impressively sharp nail, raising an eyebrow when a flash drive falls out. That’s your insurance, the proof you need to clear your name, to show that this whole thing is just a stupid mistake.

You’re a good person; you like animals and cry like a baby during movies if they die even though you know it’s not real. You used to volunteer at your local retirement home, singing for them or leading them in gentle exercise. You donated to a handful of charities when you had the money to do so. Six months ago, you rescued two cats off of the street for fuck’s sake and had to steal food from the commissary for a whole month so they could get the treatment and shots they needed.

You want Creed to know that you’re _not_ a killer, but you have no other choice, no other options.

“This ain’t enough.” Again, Creed’s voice brings you out of your trance.

“What?” You aren’t sure you’d hear him correctly.

He waves a hand over the money, which he’d counted and sorted into piles. “It ain’t enough, tiger,” he says again slowly.

You’re exceptionally calm as you step forward and place your hands flat on the glass (fuck yeah, smudge that shit up). Leaning forward, you make sure you’re right in Creed’s fucking attractive goddamn face before you speak.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘it ain’t enough’?” You imitate the gruffness of his voice and he remains motionless, his amber eyes locked on yours. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end and you know you’re pushing him, poking the lion, but you can’t help it and you _won’t_ stop.

“That’s a fuck ton of money,” you finally shout, your hand sweeping the stacks from the desk to the floor. “That’s so much goddamn money I could have used it to put a down payment on a house in Victoria; you know how expensive real estate is there!”

Creed is unmoved, but the air around him is charged, crackling with hostility, the need and want for violence trickling in. You breathe it in because it smells amazing, like a fucking Yankee candle.

“This is my _life_ we’re talking about,” you say, letting the anger boil in your guts as you step back and turn away. “I’m giving you everything I have, Mr. Creed; _everything_. Literally. I don’t have anything left to offer you. That’s it, that’s all.”

You turn back to face him, finding him on his feet, his eyes glued to you. The crackle around him feels different now.

“Now you’re telling me that my life isn’t even worth that,” you say, a lump coming to your throat. _Goddamn it, don’t cry in front of the hitman, you twat_. In order to hide the hopelessness that creeping down your spine, you bend over and retrieve a few of the bills you’d swiped onto the floor. “I’ll gather the money and go. Sorry for wasting your time.”

 _Christ. Canadian politeness soars to new heights as broken and desperate woman apologises to gorgeous crazy psycho hitman_ — _news at five, nine, and eleven_.

“Shut up.”

Creed’s voice causes your head to snap up. His face is twisted in a snarl; you immediately feel dampness between your legs, soaking your panties. He comes out from around the desk and approaches you, trying to intimidate you with his size, but you refused to be moved. Something else flickers across his features as he grabs you by the elbow.

“I don’t want your fuckin’ money,” Creed growls, his grip tight.

“Then what _do_ you want?” you demand. “Why have you been stringing me along for the better part of a month if you don’t want my money?”

He jerks you against his body, your hands coming up instinctively. Your palms hit his chest at the same time his mouth claims yours, the kiss hungry and animalistic. It’s like he wants to devour you, and fuck, do you want him to. You kiss him back with the same ferocity and you feel a ripple of surprise from him.

He begins pushing you and you don’t fight it. Your hands fist his tight fitting shirt and it strains around his body, the buttons practically groaning as they’re stretched over Creed’s well-defined muscles. He breaks the kiss, a string of saliva stretching from your lips to his.

“Get on yer knees,” he commands and you drop without hesitation, your hands going instantly to the button of his jeans.

It’s like you have no control over yourself or your actions; you’re a slave to his voice, to his demands. You fumble with the zipper and he growls impatiently, smacking your hand aside to do it himself.

Creed’s eyes burn into yours as he lets you grab the waistband of his jeans and pull them down. His impressive cock leaps out, angry and red, the tip already covered with pre-come. You can’t help groaning, already eager to have him in your mouth.

He grabs your hand and closes it around his shaft; it’s hot and smooth against your palm. “Stroke me,” he demands. “Hard.”

You comply, your hand rough and firm as you jerk him, and he tilts his head back with a loud moan. You drag another loud one from him as you smear the pre-come over the tip using your thumb before increasing the strength of your tugs.

Soon, Creed is pulling your hand away, kicking his jeans to the side, as he goes to his knees, reaching for your shirt. You automatically put your arms up and he yanks it off, granting you another heated and primal kiss as he unhooks your bra and slides it down.

His large hands squeeze your breasts and you whimper into his mouth as he nips at your lips and tongue. You feel something nick your nipple and let out a gasp of pain. Creed leans back slightly and you look down.

 _Holy shit. This guy has_ claws!

Blood beads the small cut, and his barbed tongue flicks across it and you forget everything except for you and Creed and the way he’s making you feel. He licks at your other nipple and you gasp and arch into his mouth, almost begging him to give you more because you can’t help but want it. You can’t help but want _him_.

No one else has ever made you feel like Victor Creed does and he does it with so little effort, with the quirk of his lips, with the rise of an eyebrow. One word from him and he takes complete control of you as if you’re his submissive.

He’s gone suddenly and your eyes fly open to find him sitting on the edge of the couch, his long legs spread wide, his cock bobbing enticingly between them.

“Come here,” he growls lustily. “Fuck me with that pretty mouth of yours.”

You _want_ to do it so badly but you decide to torment him a bit, make him wait for it. You go down on all fours and crawl towards him slowly, looking at his face as his eyes watch you. He’s almost snarling by the time you reach him, your hands skimming up his thighs.

“Yer a fuckin’ tease, ain’tcha, tiger?” Creed’s hand slides around to the back of your head and grips the base of your ponytail tight. “Mmmm, need to see that sweet face lookin’ at me while yer suckin’ my cock.”

His amber eyes are half-closed with lust, staring as you lean towards his member bit by agonising bit, his breath coming faster in anticipation of your mouth. Creed cries out as you touch your tongue to the tip, arching his hips towards you.

“Want me to make you feel good, Mr. Creed?” Your tone is teasing as you repeat the words he’d said to you at the diner.

His eyes snap open. “You little wh—“

“Yes or no, Mr. Creed?” You wrap your hand around his cock, loving how hard it is as you tug once.

His expression changes; it looks as if he’s somewhat awed. “Yes,” he pants.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, tiger.”

You wrap your lips around his member and start sliding your tongue on the underside of his shaft. He makes a sound between a whimper and a growl and you feel him fighting the urge to buck his hips. It’s obvious that Creed wants you to show him your talents without interference from his impulses, so you press your hands where his legs meet his torso and push, your thumbs digging into the area just above his pubic bone to keep his hips from jerking.

A choked noise comes from him; did he know that you’re freakishly strong and have unbreakable bones? You wonder briefly if his research told him that you’re a mutant as you continue to worm your tongue against him, eliciting the most wonderful sounds from his mouth.

Creed’s cock is too big to fit all the way in your mouth, but you’re not concerned. All you need is a little extra saliva and you wrap one hand around the base, twisting it in time as you bob your head.

“Jesus Christ,” Creed gasps as your other hand reaches up to grasp his testicles.

You’re not gentle with those either, squeezing them tightly and wrenching them from side to side. He seems to love it; you notice the fingers of his free hands curling into the couch.

You pull back slightly, letting go of his sac and cock, and putting your hands back where they’d been earlier. He almost whimpers until you pushed his dick smoothly to the back of your throat.

“Shit!” Creed snarls, his grip on your hair tightening.

You swallow once, twice, letting the pressure of it close around his cock before you back off to let yourself breathe. You do it once more, getting him deeper this time, holding him longer, and you hear the sound of fabric ripping.

His breathing is erratic. You roll your eyes up and the second his amber eyes meet your gaze, you dig your fingernails into the sensitive area above his pubic bone.

“Fuck!” he shouts as he explodes.

You drag your fingernails down his thighs, deep and hard enough to leave bloody furrows in his flesh. He yells your real name as his hot come shoots over your tongue and down your throat; you swallow it greedily, sucking and pulling with your mouth until you’re sure he’s completely drained.

The hand holding your hair drags you off of his spent cock and pulls you up so that you’re kneeling straight up, your head level with his chest. He leans down his breath sweet on your flushed face.

“Christ, tiger,” he says, his eyes crackling. “You are the eighth goddamn wonder of the world.”

Creed kisses you again and you place your hands on the outsides of his thighs, pulling back when you feel something strange. Glancing down, you see the cushion has been slashed and stuffing is poking out from between the five claw marks.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, baby,” he murmurs against your shoulder. “I’ll just turn it over. No one’ll notice.”

Your laugh turns into a groan as his hands grab your breasts roughly, the pad of his thumbs skating over your nipples. The sensations fade as he slides his grip down to your waist and picks you up so that you’re standing between his legs. His fingers make short work of your jeans and underwear and you're so far gone, you have no idea where they end up once you step out of them.

He grasps you under one knee, lifting your leg in order to place a foot on his thigh. You can’t help but notice the furrows are gone, save for the blood that’s started to become tacky.

“Spread those pink lips an’ show me that pussy,” Creed purrs and your fingers move of their own accord, stroking the folds before you part them, tilting your hips forward slightly.

You groan as you stroke yourself; you’re so wet and slippery and it feels _so_ good. It feels even better when one of Creed’s fingers circles your opening. A moan slips from you and you fight the urge to push yourself down on his digit.

“Nice an’ ready fer me, huh baby?”

He picks you up again, this time depositing you on his lap so you’re straddling him. His erection brushes your pubic hair and you can’t help but be amazed that he’s hard already, but you’re not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

You grab his shirt and rip it open, paying no heed to the pinging of the buttons as they fly everywhere. You rub your hands down his chest, loving the feel of his soft, blonde chest hair under your palms.

“Want my cock inside you, tiger?” he croons, his grip tight on your waist as the slow pull and push of his hips let you feel his hardness.

“What the fuck do you think?” you growl, jerking yours so that his member is pressed against his stomach. You’re trying to regain a little bit of control before you find yourself caving to him completely like a mindless slave. He needs to know that you’re not afraid to speak up or talk back.

“Got a bit of mouth on ya,” Creed says with a sinful smile.

“You love it,” you retort, grinding your hips a bit harder, drawing a half groan, half growl from his lips.

You give him space to position his cock against your pussy, but not before he runs the tip along the slick folds, drawing another low growl from you. Impatient, you impale yourself on his hardness, shouting as you drive him all the way inside.

“ _Fuck_!” Creed hisses. “Pussy so _tight_ …”

He fills you to the brim, stretching you wide open, your insides burning. Jesus, though, the burn feels _so fucking good_. He’s so big, so wide that you wonder again if you’re going to be split in half with just one thrust. You decide it sure as fuck doesn’t matter because it would be a hell of a way to go.

_Local woman found fucked to death; huge smile on face. Police do not suspect foul play. News at five, nine, and eleven._

Just as it becomes too painful, too much, pleasure washes through your body, and again, it’s like he magically fits inside you, his cock made to fill you and you specifically. The rhythm you set is punishing, the thrust of your hips frantic as you push yourself down on him again and again and white hot bliss begins to build, a beautiful white that’ll wash away all of the shit that’s happened today if you could just get there.

Creed’s fingers are on your hips, his grip tight. You’ll bruise, but you don’t give a good goddamn. You almost wish he’d dig those lethal looking claws into your skin and leave a permanent mark, something to tell you that this is not a dream, that _he’s_ not a dream.

Gasps, grunts, and groans along with the obscene sounds of your flesh slapping against his fill the room and you suddenly become aware that a full floor to ceiling window is behind you, an unobstructed view city lit up against the rainy night.

There could be someone watching you as you fuck yourself down on Creed’s incredible cock, watching as you kiss him roughly, watching as you grab his hair and yank his head back in order to lick his neck, watching as you scratch the nails of one hand down his sculpted chest hard enough to draw blood.

You’re a caged animal, and what you’re doing is visceral, instinctive, _necessary_. It’s more than just a great fuck; you’re claiming something that belongs to you, marking your territory so no one else would dare take what is _yours_.

“Victor,” you cry. “ _Oh,_ _Jesus Christ_ —“

You’re pulsating around his cock and Creed pulls you down so you’re enveloping him, the walls of your pussy fluttering wildly, flexing and squeezing. You scream his name again as your vision blurs, the only thing you’re able to see is a pair of wild amber eyes, the pupils blown with lust.

Cries continue to fall from your lips as you tip over the edge, and you arch your back, shouting incoherently, coming so hard, everything is your body is on fire and it’s spilling out of you, spilling and spilling and spilling …

Finally, the orgasm begins to fade and you slump forward, your head on Creed’s shoulder as you gasp for air, your breath fluttering his hair. His grasp becomes more than bruising; you feel sharp pricks at your hipbone and your lower back. He hasn’t let go, still keeping you down on him, revelling in how you’re milking him.

“Goddammit,” he growls as he begins to thrust up into you, rough, violent strokes that have him slamming against you, forcing out grunts and groans that ghost over the skin of his throat.

Several more brutal plunges and Creed roars loudly, spilling into you, his cock twitching as it empties. His mouth goes to your neck and he bites down, driving another shout from you. His rough tongue rasps over your skin, lapping at the blood that spills.

You know it should hurt—bites _should_ hurt—but it doesn’t. It feels goddamn incredible and sends severe shivers down your spine. Unexpectedly, another orgasm crests and you wail your ecstasy to the vaulted, exposed beam ceilings as your body quakes forcefully.

Creed lets you go, grunting as you grind down on him, wanting to prolong your climax, and you do for a few more moments until your muscles seem to stop working and you collapse against him, his arms going around your waist.

He holds you to him, the sweat of his chest mingling with yours. Both of you are winded, trying to get much-needed air into your lungs. As you huff and puff, one of Creed’s hands strokes down your back, his nails scratching fine lines into your flesh.

“Mmmmm,” you sigh as you melt into him, your lips brushing a spot just under his ear. It turns out it’s pointed, so you shift slightly to nip at the tip.

He growls, low and lusty. “Keep that shit up if ya wanna get fucked again.”

You chuckle and slowly side his softening cock from your core, both of you moaning at the feeling of being separated. You nip at his earlobe this time and he twists so he can lie back on the couch, pulling you down so your head is resting on his chest.

“This is what I want,” he says softly, stroking his fingers through your hair.

Drowsy and hazy, floating in the afterglow, you’re not sure you heard him correctly. “Hmmm?”

Creed pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts it back so you can see his face. He looks satiated, his amber eyes hooded. “When I said I didn’t want your money,” he says. “I really don’t want it. I want this; I want you.”

“What?!” His words feel heavy and you push yourself up. “The fuck does that mean?”

He lifts himself on his elbows. “Jesus Christ, tiger,” he says heatedly, “get a fuckin’ clue. Your money don’t mean shit; it never has. I’ll do what you want as long as you agree to stay with me.”

You shoot to your feet. “No,” you say angrily. “No, you can’t go changing the rules like that. You said you’d do what I needed when we met in the theatre and that meant taking the cash.”

Creed sits up and rubs a hand over his face. “I changed my mind.”

Glancing around, you start snatching up your clothes, yanking them on as quickly as you can. “You’re doing this ‘cause you found out I used to be a whore, is that it? You think ‘cause I used to be a high-priced call girl that I’ll let you get your dick wet whenever you have a hard-on in exchange for your professional services?”

He’s on his feet now, grabbing your arm, pulling you close. His mouth is next to your ear. “Look,” he says softly, his warm breath stirring your hair, “you don’t got the kind of cash I charge for this kind of thing an’ to be honest tiger, you ain’t _never_ gonna have that kind of money, never in a million years.”

“So you want me to pay you with sex?”

Creed pulls back to look you in the eyes. “Not just with sex—I want  _you_ ;  _all_ of you. I want you with me. There’s somethin’ between us, girl. Don’t you feel it?”

Fuck yes you feel it. You’ve felt it every goddamn day and night since he’d put his hand down your jeans at the movie theatre. It was a desire, a craving to be near him, to be with him always. You’d felt it when you were bouncing on him like a trampoline, the satisfying feeling of claiming him, making him yours and only yours as you clawed his flesh.

The bite on your neck aches and you clamp a hand over it.

“No,” you reply harshly. “I don’t feel anything; you’re just a means to an end, Creed. That’s all you are, that’s all you ever were.”

His expression clouds. “Yer lyin’. I _know_ yer feelin’ what I feel, that primal, animal urge of possession. You wanna own me as much as I wanna own you.”

There’s nothing but rage inside and you shove him away, hard. He stumbles but manages to catch himself. The face he turns on you is surprised, whether it’s from the force of your shove or your blatant refusal, you don’t know.

“I am _no one’s_ whore, not anymore,” you say quietly, anger bubbling behind the words. “I left that kind of life behind. I won’t do it. It’s either the cash or nothing.”

His amber eyes flick over you, his face neutral as he takes a few more steps away. The room is silent, save for the rain pattering against the window. He moves back to the bar and pours a glass of scotch, swirling it before he takes a sip.

“Then I can’t help you,” Creed says, turning his back to you. “The deal is off.”

His words hit you like a baseball bat to the gut and the bottom drops out of your life. You start trembling, but it’s not from desire, it’s from fury.

“You would seriously blackmail me in order to have a solid guarantee to get fucked whenever you’re horny?” Your voice is loud and irate, filling the space. “That’s bullshit.”

His back is still to you as he speaks. “Blackmail implies I’d threaten you until you give in. I ain’t threatenin’ you; I have no interest in that. I’m simply endin’ our business relationship because we ain’t able to agree on terms of payment.”

A tsunami of fury crashes into you and your hand reaches for the nearest thing you can find—a heavy, crystal statue of a snowcat—and you heave it at him.

It gets Creed between his shoulder blades, cracking into three large pieces as it hits. He grunts and staggers forward a few steps before going down on a knee. The glass smashes on the hardwood with a satisfying sound.

“You disgusting son of a bitch!” you scream, reaching for something else to throw. Your fingers clamp around a vase and it sails through the air shatters at his feet. “You fucking ass-faced bastard! You goddamn yeast infection!”

Each exclamation of abhorrence is punctuated by the destruction of a valuable item—at least you hope they’re valuable. You yell, you shriek, you screech until you could feel yourself fading, the furiousness slowly declining into defeat.

You had placed your life, your hopes, and your future in the hands of the man before you and you can’t help the overwhelming sense of dread and betrayal that crash into you. You’re no longer able to speak, but you do stop the tears that threaten to spill.

He stands and turns to you, his expression neutral. The hair on the back of your neck is standing on end; you’re in danger, but you’re not done yet. Let him attack you, let him kill you. It doesn't matter now. His simmering anger gives you back some of your strength.

“I apologise for wasting your time, Mr. Creed,” Your voice sounds breathy and scared but you keep your back straight as you collect your messenger bag. “I wasn’t able to find my panties, so I suppose they’re yours now. And you know what? Keep the fucking money too; I don’t need it anymore.”

You’re poised as you go towards the entrance to put on your shoes and coat. You want to get away from Victor Creed, put his handsome face and incredibly sexy body in your rearview mirror and drive the fuck away. As you reach for your shoes, you’re grabbed from behind and shoved face-first into the wall, your arm twisted behind your back.

Creed’s voice is low and dangerous in your ear. “You think yer all sweet an’ innocent, tiger, but I’m gonna let you in on somethin’: underneath all that sass an’ bluster, yer a killer just like me. You know why? ‘Cause I see me in you, someone who was used up by society an’ tossed aside like a piece of fuckin’ garbage.”

His words touch a little too close to home and you struggle against him, unable to get leverage.

“I’m not,” you gasp. “I’m not a killer!”

“You are,” he hisses. “You ain’t the one doin’ the killin’ but you’re still a killer. You want someone dead, even if it ain’t by your hand.”

Creed releases you and is gone. You’re left alone to pull on your shoes and jacket and grab your messenger bag, pressing the elevator button frantically and fighting back tears.

He’s right; he’s fucking right. You’re no better than he is; sure, your finger’s not on the trigger but you’re the one that gave someone else the gun.

The door slides open and you get in with your head held high, in case Creed’s watching you. Once they shut firmly, you allow yourself to dissolve into tears.

What have you done?

The bite on your neck throbs angrily and you touch it, your fingers coming away bloody. For a few seconds, you consider going back up, throwing yourself into Creed’s arms, and telling him you’ll do anything he wants—absolutely anything—but bile rises in your throat. You can’t go back to that kind of life; you _won’t_.

_For my will is as strong as yours, my kingdom as great. You have no power over me!_

As you continue to descend, you realise that you’ve never been more alone in your whole life. Fuck, you want Creed  _so bad_ , but you can’t give him the satisfaction. Your heart aches in time with the bite and you ask yourself one more question:

_Just what exactly have you gone and fucking done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Labyrinth (1986) - written by Dennis Lee & Jim Henson with assistance from Terry Jones. Directed by Jim Henson
> 
> Get Smart (1965-1970) - created by Mel Brooks & Buck Henry; various writers
> 
> Got Your Money (1999) performed by Ol' Dirty Bastard ft. Kelis; written by Ol' Dirty Bastard
> 
> Canadian references aplenty!
> 
> All mistakes are my own and I sure as hell don't make any money from this! This is just for shits an' gigs.


	4. Step Four: Missing the Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You went an' fuckin' left an' I'm pissed, but don't worry. We'll be together again soon, even if you don't want it. You're in over your head, tiger, that's for damn sure.

Just what she means to me now  
Oh you just oh you just wouldn't understand  
And the people say oh they say she's no good  
Oh but she's my woman  
And I know I'm her man  
If she's got a problem oh yeah yeah  
Oh I know I'm gonna have to help her solve it

- _When Something Is Wrong_ With _My Baby_ by Sam and Dave

 

* * *

 

 

You left my penthouse exactly four days, sixteen hours, ten minutes, an’ five seconds ago. Yeah, I been keepin’ track. What good is a $400,000 watch if you ain’t gonna fuckin’ use it?

It took me exactly four minutes an’ forty-eight seconds to destroy almost every fuckin’ thing in this damn place. I timed it.

The only thing I didn’t annihilate durin’ my rage was the goddamned sofa where we’d fucked. I wanna rip it to shreds with my bare hands, set in on fire, an’ piss on it for good measure, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

It still smells like you.

I found the panties you lost; I keep ‘em on my pillow, next to the other one, the ones I snagged from the diner. I sleep on ‘em at night, an’ I’m out like the goddamn dead ‘cause I’m surrounded by your scent.

I can’t fuckin’ get enough of it. I can’t get enough of _you_.

Shouldn’t’ve said what I did. You ain’t a killer, tiger.

I only said it ‘cause I was furious; you standin’ there, tellin’ me you wasn’t feelin’ what I was feelin’. You were fuckin’ lyin’—lyin’ right to my goddamn face.

Lyin’ even though you were wearin’ my mark right there on your neck.

I dunno how you did it, how you were able to turn an’ walk away from me, ‘cause I barely managed to stay alive the second those elevator doors shut an’ you were out of my sight.

I went fuckin’ crazy, tossin’ the joint like I was Led Zepplin in ’69 at the Edgewater Hotel, minus the mud shark.

My heart was a jackhammer in my chest an’ I tried to claw it out more n’ once ‘cause I couldn’t stand the noise, a frantic _buddabuddabuddabuddabudda_ that wouldn’t fuckin’ stop. Blood’s still all over the kitchen.

An’ the money you left behind is scattered to kingdom fuckin’ come and I can’t stand lookin’ at the colourful bills: blues, red, greens, browns. It’s as if the goddamn Queen of England and three different former prime ministers are starin’ at me, judgin’ me, tellin’ me how badly I fucked up.

Yeah, well I was around for all their tenures an’ ain’t none of them got the right to judge me; they’ve all fucked up just as bad or worse n’ I did—except for Laurier. He was okay … for a politician.

I kneel in the shards of glass that used to be my desk, lettin’ ‘em dig into the flesh of my knees an’ shins. Feels good to have some familiar pain shoot through my nerves, remind me I’m still livin’, though I don’t know what the fuck for.

I pick up a few bills, uncoverin’ a photo of you that I’d snapped back when I was followin’ you. I remember it in excruciatin’ detail.

It was a hot night, an’ I was lurkin’ in a tree at your neighbour’s house, a huge, thick leafy number, an’ you were tryin’ to sleep but all you was doin’ was tossin’ an’ turnin’. You’d flipped the covers aside an’ all you was wearing was a grey tank an’ a pair of black panties.

With a sigh, you’d rolled onto you back an’ slowly eased your hand down the front of those panties. You began to touch yourself lazily, the oppressive heat havin’ sapped all your energy.

Soon, though, all that energy came back an’ was bein’ focused on your clit, your fingers caressin’ an’ rubbin’ frenetically, your sighs an’ moans the only thing I could hear.

I was as hard as Chinese algebra an’ I was wonderin’ if you’re thinkin’ of me, how I’d stroked you in the same place until you’d bucked excitedly against my fingers.

You was gettin’ close, I could tell, so I raised the camera an’ a few seconds before you came, I took the picture.

Thank you high-res zoom lens.

Fuck, I love the 21st century.

My cock reacts to the photo an’ the memory, becomin’ fuckin’ hard in an instant. I ease my sweatpants down an’ wrap a hand around it. It’s hot to the touch, almost burnin’ against my palm.

Pre-come is already leakin’ from the tip an’ I smear it around, jus’ like you did the last time we were together. The thought of your caress makes me moan as I start pullin’.

Your scent is strong; the sofa’s close by an’ images of that day start runnin’ through me. Jesus, your mouth was amazin’ as it worked my cock, your eyes locked on mine.

 _Fuck_.

Talkin’ to me how you did, all saucy an’ rude, makin’ me ask for your touch. Makin’ me _wait_.

 _Fuck_.

Ridin’ me that with hot, tight, velvety pussy as you scratched your nails all over my flesh, drawin’ blood.

 _Shit_.

An’ when you’d cried out my name—“ _Victor!”_ —shit.

I’m gettin’ close an’ it’s the vision of the mark I gave you, the bite on your neck claimin’ you as mine, _that’s_ what does it. Knowin’ you’re out there, walkin’ around, existin’ with _my_ mark on you, that’s what pushes me over the edge.

 _You’re mine, tiger. MINE_.

I come with a grunt, shootin’ long, thick strands of my seed across the shinin’ bits of glass an’ the swath of the devastation I wreaked. Pantin’, I tuck my dick back into my pants an’ bend, placin’ my hands against the silvery white slivers, grindin’ down as hard as I can.

The pain is white hot, shootin’ through my body, an alarm bell ringin’ in my brain. I _need_ this; I _deserve_ this.

 _No. I_ need _you. I_ deserve _you._

Growlin’, I lean back on my knees.

You can’t stay away from me forever, tiger—my mark makes fuckin’ sure of that. I don’t care how strong you think you are, our connection is stronger.

That idea cheers me a little, so I go back to pickin’ up the bills. I’m halfway done when I find the flash drive you’d attached to the money. It’s small an’ blue an’ you’d acted like it was really fuckin’ important.

I pick it up, an’ curious, go up the stairs to my bedroom.

I didn’t fuck up any shit in here since you haven’t been in it; so, it’s really the only safe space I have right now.

My laptop is on my nightstand an’ I pop the drive into a port, then lift the lid. There’s about a million emails from various shitbags I’m doin’ work for an’ one from an address I don’t recognise. I click on it.

_Mr. Creed,_

_Stop interfering. Leave her to us; it’ll be easier for all involved._

It ain’t signed.

What the fuck? What piece of fuckin’ shit sent me this? You don’t fuckin’ threaten Victor Creed if you value your internal organs and those of your close friends and loved ones. The keyboard creaks ominously under my hands.

I’m fuckin’ seethin’ now, seein’ red.

I grab my cell an’ am immediately barkin’ orders at lackeys, demandin’ to know where this email came from, who sent it, what time of day do they normally take a shit, all of it. I want _everything_ on this motherfucker and I want it _now_.

I wanna know how this fuckbag managed to email me. I mean I’ve got fuckin’ Tony Stark shit all over the goddamn place. I should be snug as a fuckin’ bug in a fuckin’ rug. I'm harder to find than fuckin' Sasquatch.

I’m pantin’ and sweatin’—about to have a goddamn stroke, I’m sure—when I open the flash drive.

What I read sends me into a whole other fuckin’ frenzy.

“Jesus Christ, tiger,” I breathe, my heart in my goddamn throat. “What the fuck have you gotten your sweet ass into?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Something Is Wrong With My Baby (1967) - sung by Sam & Dave; written by Issac Hayes (Chef from South Park) and David Porter. Released by Stax Records.
> 
> Led Zepplin in 1969 at the Edgewater Hotel - FYI, don't look up this weird piece of rock & roll history if you're easily triggered. It's all shades of fucked up. Consider yourself warned.


End file.
